My Grandparents’ House
The house is always full
of people, food, and laughter.
Each meal is lovingly crafted
by my grandma’s deft hands–
experience rooted deep
in the map of calluses that covers them.
Card games and conversations
fill every free moment.
Traditions crafted and nurtured
by them,
taught and passed down
to us,
in hopes that we will preserve them.
It is never silent,
never empty
when we come to visit.
I try not to think
of the day it will end.
The day that house becomes empty
is the day I will
as well.
One thought on "My Grandparents’ House"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
I like the way you go from the warmth of your grandmother’s house to the solemnity of knowing the moment cannot stretch on forever. It is a perfect portrait of our fearful minds; it can be difficult for us worriers to savor present joys because at the back of our conscious, we dread the woe that will stain our happiness. On a happier note, I appreciate your use of “deft;” I haven’t read that word in a while. I also love the image of your grandma’s hands as a callused map. Beautiful!